


Chicken Soup

by LoveChilde



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, Community: purimgifts, Friendship, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Musicals, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23066752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/pseuds/LoveChilde
Summary: Julia won't admit that she's sick. Tom insists.
Relationships: Julia Houston & Tom Levitt
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: Purimgifts 2020





	Chicken Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookiegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiegirl/gifts).



> Happy Purim! I apologize if my Smash is a tad rusty, but you asked for sickfic and I tried to provide.

There was some kind of bug going around the studio. People were sniffling, coughing, calling in sick. A full company rehearsal had been cancelled in favor of working with the soloists who could make it, simply because there wasn’t enough of the company available.It was a disaster. 

Tom swung into the office Julia was using, harassed and chilled and - and she was sneezing. God damnit. 

“Julia? Did you catch it as well? Shit.” He leaned against the wall, winded. They were heading into previews at the end of the month and some of the scenes weren’t quite where they needed to be, they had songs to tweak and - “Half the company’s down with this thing, it’s a mess.”

“No, no, I’m totally fine.” She blew her nose. “Allergies.” 

She was patently not fine. “You don’t get allergies in midwinter. Liar.”

“I’m not lying! I’m fine. And these revisions need to go out today, or we’ll be scrambling to catch up and that will suck.” She was gasping on the last few words, and blew her nose again. “Really, I’m fine. Let’s just get back to work.”

He didn’t believe her, but they had work to do, so he sat down and they got to work.

Five hours later, not much progress had been made, and she was looking even worse. Tom watched her as she listlessly pushed a dumpling across a paper plate, and cleared his throat. 

“Look, you’re clearly not feeling well, maybe we should call it a night? Look, you’re not even eating.” He gestured to her plate, aware that he sounded petulant but genuinely concerned. 

“I’m just not hungry.” She was _never_ not hungry for dumplings. “Let’s try to finish this one thing and then I’ll let you send me home, okay?”

‘This one thing’ took them until well past midnight, and Julia was swaying on her feet when she finally stood up. “Uh. Crap. I am so tired.”

"Not tired, hon. Sick.” Tom corrected, feeling like he was being very patient indeed. “Let’s get you home, okay? And I don’t want to see you here tomorrow.”

She came in the next day, of course. In fact, if Tom hadn’t shared a taxi home with her, he’d have bet that she hadn’t gone home. She certainly didn’t look any better. Tom decided indiscretion was the better part of valor, for a change. “You look like shit. Go home.” 

"Can’t.” She said, sounding like she’d sandpapered her vocal cords all night. “Have work. I’m bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to work.”

“Love of God, Julia! You’re not bright eyed, you’re feverish. Come on, we’re going home. We can work from there.” She still seemed hesitant, “Seriously, do I need to call Frank to help me wrangle you? Because you know I will.” He backed this very real threat with a Finger wag of Doom, and she made a melodramatic show of a horrified recoil.

“Oh no! Not the husband!” Her melodrama was cut short by an actual stumble, and she collapsed into the wall while Tom scrambled to steady her. “Okay. Alright. Maybe I’m sick.”

"Maybe? You’re like a friggin’ furnace.” He could feel it through the fabric of her shirt. “I’m taking you home and straight to bed right this instant.”

That she let him follow through on that showed that she really was actually ill.

The next few days, Tom split his time between the studio (absolute horror, everybody slightly ill and producing at best nasal and scratchy vocals) and Julia’s (horror, but at least nobody was trying to sing), carrying chicken soup and drafts of lyrics and music across town. It was exhausting. 

Finally, after a week of this, he came into the studio and Julia was there, fresh as a daisy. Tom himself, on the other hand…

"You look like crap. You should go home. Better yet, go to my place, there’s chicken soup leff. Don’t make me call Frank to help wrangle you!” Julia waved the Finger of Doom at him, and Tom rolled his eyes. And winced; apparently even his eyes hurt.

“Oh no, not the husband!” He gestured melodramatically, and didn’t stumble but it was a close thing. 

"Come on, my turn to look out for you. We can finish this from my place.”

Tom made a point of being better about these things than Julia was. He was easygoing. Not a control freak. He could let go. 

He whined for the entire 35 minute drive back to his place, and then for the ten minutes it too Julia to park his ass on the couch with tea and a comforter. And then he was out like a light.

Julia was kind enough not to mock him too badly about that, once he recovered. The play was delayed by a full week, but hell, the bug hit theater-goers as well, so no real harm was done.


End file.
